in 1983.
But what's ten years to a heart anyway?
Sunday, December 19, 2010
Friday, December 17, 2010
I am unable
to function without someone to look after me.
My entire life, I have had another person there, telling me what to do, and when to do it. That's how I survived.
I am a child.
I have lived on my own, yes. I have graduated high school and kept a job, yes. All of those things were easy, because they were cut and dry, things I had to do to survive.
College is another story. Nobody makes you do things here.
You can fail classes easier than I can type this sentence.
I am a child.
I need someone to take care of me.
Thursday, December 16, 2010
You're just too hip
for me, man.
This is not me denying that I have hipster qualities, because, let's face it, I do.
"Hipsters are the friends who sneer when you cop to liking Coldplay. They're the people who wear t-shirts silk-screened with quotes from movies you've never heard of and the only ones in America who still think Pabst Blue Ribbon is a good beer. They sport cowboy hats and berets and think Kanye West stole their sunglasses. Everything about them is exactingly constructed to give off the vibe that they just don't care."
— Time, July 2009
Here's what I think.
"Hipsters" are okay, until they become exactly what they don't want to be. Arrogant and overzealous about their tastes in whatever the topic of discussion may be. At the core, they don't want to care, but then you're caring about being seen as not caring. The only true "hipsters" are those ones who honestly never meant to be, and there are not too many. Jack Kerouac led the sort of revolution that began in the 1940's and 1950's, and it was brought back today to describe a kaleidoscopic subculture, because they needed a nicer name than the what-I-think-is-significantly-better-than-what-you-think's.
There lies my only problem with being referred to as "hip," because I am able to respect the choices of others and take influences from different cultures and grow from them. Because I wear certain clothes, listen to certain bands, or ride a fucking fixed-gear bike, does that make me someone different than I have always been? Not until I start to judge other people who wear certain clothes, listen to certain bands, or drive a van. Then I become someone different, and then I become fully encompassed in a lifestyle of irony.
I would rather just be a person who can, at the least, tolerate your views and opinions without imposing my own on top of them.
I'll listen to Coldplay when I please, because they're talented and make me feel things. I'll wear the shirts I made because I'm proud of them, and I'll watch the movies that hold my attention. I'll drink my PBR because it's what's at the party, knowing that it's the equivalent to cardboard flavored fizzy water. I will wear whatever hat keeps the sun out of my eyes or the cold from my ears. I have no idea what kind of sunglasses Kanye West wears, and he surely didn't steal mine, because they're in my bag right now. I certainly don't fit the mold entirely, but there's no question that I have my moments.
Overall, there is a significant piece of the culture that deals directly with a lack of respect for anyone but themselves, and that is the part I don't wish to be associated with.
You call it irony, I call it hypocrisy.
I have a sad habit
of reading the missed connections on Craigslist.
I sometimes wish that there was one whose description I fit, but there never are.
I find myself hoping that these people will meet and enjoy each others' company. I make up lives for them. Some get an apartment in the city, some settle down, some take a weekend trip to the dog park.
Some of the stories are sad, when I imagine what will happen to these people if they never find each other.
Most of the time, I wish I was interesting enough to have a missed connection written about me.
Tuesday, December 14, 2010
I can see
the words inside your silence, but I can't speak about your pain for you.
How long can you burn for, anyways?
Turning over and back again with tongues ablaze like lions without teeth, hungry.
Staring at the forests of flames and our eyes just talking with the trees.
If we could drift long enough, we'll be home.
Sails blown by the fire within, pushing me to you.
And you can live inside of me, sewn together.
Breaking, inhaling, growing and breaking, again and again.
And you are a part of me.
You are my home and I'm your home, but I'm no place you want to be.
So I'm out here again, sparks hid behind my teeth.
I won't say a word for fear of failure spreading.
It takes some of us longer to get our dead ends now.
Oh, blood stained with loose living ran through charcoal hearts to make it red.
And we can be on fire again, you and I.
Do you want this?
Well say what you want, say what you mean.
Or we can talk, lung to closed ear.
Head inside a hand turning over again, together.
Cut up with cheap heat running through our veins.
And we can lay brick by broken brick, our ashes pushed in between.
And build this road back home to where we want to be.
We are not our own, we are the same.
Monday, December 13, 2010
"I am a collector of stories,"
you told me.
Every single night I told you bits and pieces of mine. We haven't talked in months, and I have no idea where you are.
I decided that this summer I'm going to get on a plane and find you.
I'm going to take myself to your last known location and I will knock on doors until someone tells me where you're at.
Even though I haven't seen you in years, yours is a funeral I'd fly to from anywhere. You said that to me every time we said goodbye, and I promise that I will stay true to that, I know you will too.
This is just a small break in contact. I'll see you soon.
Sunday, December 12, 2010
She sees his face
in the sweat stained sheets.
The dirty cups,
they keep on piling up.
In the backyard,
so overgrown.
In the dandelions,
they peek through the cracks in the patio.
She swears she hears the phone,
but she only gets a dial-tone.
So she imagines what'd she say:
"If you feel like coming home to me sometime,
yeah, if you feel like coming home to me,
I'll be waiting at the door.
There is nothing to be sorry for.
So why can't you come home?
Don't you feel like coming home to me anymore?
You don't feel like coming home to me?"
they keep on piling up.
In the backyard,
so overgrown.
In the dandelions,
they peek through the cracks in the patio.
She swears she hears the phone,
but she only gets a dial-tone.
So she imagines what'd she say:
"If you feel like coming home to me sometime,
yeah, if you feel like coming home to me,
I'll be waiting at the door.
There is nothing to be sorry for.
So why can't you come home?
Don't you feel like coming home to me anymore?
You don't feel like coming home to me?"
ugh.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
